


Half Breed

by storyplease



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breeding, Creepy, F/M, Fertility Rituals, Impregnation, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyplease/pseuds/storyplease
Summary: Dolores Umbridge has a very bad day...with an infamous werewolf.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note:  This story is unspeakably dark and kind of terrible, but as it is much easier to purge unspeakably dark and terrible things from one’s brain by writing them down, so have I devised to engage in a bit of catharsis of my own.
> 
> Trigger Warnings for rape, non-consensual behavior, and general awfulness.
> 
> But hey, if you've held on this far, I'm sure you're just the sort of person who will enjoy my fic.

 If you believed the rumors, Dolores Jane Umbridge was born a horrible person. She disagreed, finding ways to make their lives miserable for spreading such lies. Sure, she was a terrible person, but she knew that everybody, secretly, was a terrible person.  The pretty ones simply hid it better than people like herself.  Truthfully, the only difference between herself and most other people was that she was fully aware of this fact.

She'd been a fat, squat little baby. So ugly that her own father had accused her mother of mating with a mountain troll. It had taken a special heredity charm procedure at St Mungos to convince him otherwise. The consensus was that something had gone horribly wrong, so they tried again immediately.

Her younger brother, Tirant, was as beautiful and graceful as she was ugly and awkward.  He was all long legs and wide, dark eyes, like a doll come to life. Her parents introduced him first, often outright forgetting her at social functions. Dolores maintained that she didn't mind, though it stung her heart to see such an overt example of her parents indifference. Instead she smiled. She learned how to use manners and others’ fear of rudeness to force those around her to interact with her as an equal, though by the looks she was given, it was obvious they thought otherwise.  Her ugliness seeped through her skin, staining her soul as unforgiving year after unforgiving year passed her by.

She learned to cling to her pure-blooded pedigree. Perhaps she was ugly and her lips were wide and thin like that of a frog, but she was _better_ than they were. She could look forward to being seen eligible to marry into the social elite, as looks were far less important than connections, and her father, whose international trading and import business was always booming, made her hand very politically attractive.

Dolores may have gotten her looks from her squat, hulking father, but she also inherited his shrewd personality. Nothing was handed to her, so she clawed out her parents’ approval using sheer will and cunning alone. She was utterly mortified when she was Sorted into Hufflepuff, but that too offered some measure of opportunity.

By the time she graduated, she had a veritable army of underlings that she knew would prove useful in the years to come.

Still, she had to bribe her way with promises of connections into her job as a lowly records clerk in the basement of the Ministry. A Hufflepuff is not afraid of toil, after all, and Dolores knew more about toil than most, due to the curses of her innate ugliness. Still, she learned to pull her lips back into a sickly smile and put on her pink robes and powdered her face as though any of it would do any good in hiding her flaws. A tiny plastic kitten barrette or a slide bow on the side of her bobbed haircut added a bit of flair and she felt as pretty as she could be while also looking at herself through squinted eyes in the mirror so as to lie to herself just enough to get through the day.

Rather than mourn her lack of suitors in school, Dolores made a point of cherishing her virginity. It was a sign of good breeding to save it for marriage, after all. Dolores harbored no hopes of being married off to a handsome wizard, but she knew that looks were far less important than power and wealth. Sometimes she hoped to be sent off with some dusty old fart of a pure-blood so that she could outlive him and finally take all of their combined money and power as her own.

While Dolores was working twice as hard for half the reward, her younger brother was having the time of his life.

* * *

Tirant, who was a year below her in school and a Slytherin to boot, made Head Boy the following year. His graduation party was massive. The Umbridges spared no expense. Anyone who was anyone attended, even the rising star of the Ministry, Thomas Gaunt. It was fairly obvious that his eye was set on the position of Minister of Magic, and the general consensus of the Umbridge family (Dolores included) was that it was only a matter of time.  He was older than Dolores by over ten years, but he was handsome, refined, and the desire of every girl at the party.  Tirant looked up to him as well, and was rewarded with a photo on the front page of the Daily Prophet shaking Gaunt’s hand.

 As the night wore on and the sparkling wine was replaced with firewhiskey, a strange energy began to grip the remaining guests.  Groups of wizards huddled in corners, speaking in half-whispers.  Witches laughed too loudly at bawdy jokes. A man in a mask tried to steal a kiss from a woman who Dolores could have sworn looked like Bellatrix Black; a mere third year at Hogwarts. Dolores, only just eighteen years of age, was scandalized. Part of it may have been due to the fact that she was left alone while others canoodled and danced far closer than was proper.

Deciding that she’d had enough, she pouted off to her room to turn in for the night.  She reached her door, alone and full of a heavy sense of loneliness as she realized that none of the sexy, romantic things happening down in the ballroom would ever be _hers_ to enjoy.

It was, therefore, utterly unexpected when she felt the hot, sharp jab of a stunner slam into her back.  Dolores crumpled to the floor, her eyes fixing vaguely on a pair of shiny leather shoes as they took a step towards her.

Tirant Umbridge could do no wrong in the eyes of his parents. Which, perhaps, was the reason they hadn’t caught onto his favourite game.

Punishing Dolores.

“You’re pathetic,” he’d sneer as he forced Dolores to lick his shoes clean.  He was deceptively strong, and used this to his advantage. “Mum and Dad only kept you because killing you would have gotten them thrown in Azkaban.”

He’d force her get down on all fours to be his chair, sometimes, as well. Her back and wrists would ache as he dug his bony arse into her spine.  He dripped hot wax on her arms. He’d sneak into her room and place slugs in her bed. He’d pull her by her hair and practice running the sharp edge of a knife perilously close to her neck.  Sometimes he’d lick the blood, if he managed to cut her by accident.  He’d prod her belly and make fun of it when it jiggled.  Once, he took nude photos of her and threatened to show them to his friends.  Dolores took the abuse because she’d tried many times already to stop him and nothing had worked.  

She would have moved out earlier, but good pure-blooded ladies did not leave their parents house until they were married off, and Dolores had banked on Tirant’s tenure at Hogwarts to stave off his sadism until her father finished finalizing her betrothal to one of the Lestranges.  Emmet Lestrange was older and rather ugly (and word on the street was that he liked blokes far more than was proper), but Dolores hadn’t cared of anything beyond his name and his wealth.

* * *

 

“Wake up, you ugly bitch,” Tirant said sweetly.  His kind voice was so at odds with his words.

 Dolores could feel consciousness flooding her body, but she was still frozen in place.  

“Oh? Surprised?” Tirant stepped out from behind her, his wand tucked under one arm. “I think you’ll find that I’ve improved stupendously at the Full Body Bind.”

Dolores tried to whimper, but nothing escaped her mouth. She was unable to move anything more than her eyes, which rolled with fear in their sockets.

“It is my party, tonight,” Tirant said, his voice growing keen, “so I get to choose the entertainment.  I’ve been planning this for quite some time, you know, _dear sister_.”

Dolores wanted to scream at him- she knew that crying out for help or mercy wouldn’t work, but she did want to damn him to hell instead- but it was no use.

“I had to watch you all night acting like you’re good enough, but you’re nothing. You’re just a bitch- a dog that deserves to be treated as such.”  Tirant strolled around her body, tapping the tip of his wand against his lower lip thoughtfully.

With a quick slice of his wand, he cast a slicing hex down the side of her dress robes.  Dolores felt the white-hot pain of her skin splitting as a shallow cut appeared down her side.  Tirant did the same on her left side as well, and Dolores could feel the freezing cold of the room on her bare skin as the robes sunk to the floor.

“Oh, Dolores, Dolores,” Tirant tsked. “Have you been eating second helpings again? You really are a glutton.  Maybe, instead of a bitch, I should call you a she-pig instead.”

With a short laugh, her brother cut her panties off with two well-timed swipes, leaving her bleeding.

“This won’t do, or you’ll never last the night,” Tirant said with a soft chuckle, and set about to healing the cuts. He pulled out a few potions that Dolores didn’t recognize and then forced them down her frozen throat. “There. That should fix it up.”

A growl pierced the silence from behind her, and Dolores actually _was_ able to turn her head ever-so-slightly.  She couldn’t see well in the gloom, but from the sound of claws clicking across the stone floor, it was not a good sign.

“A good bitch ought to be bred by a proper dog, don’t you think?” Tirant’s voice was full of menace, now, and Dolores could feel the spell weakening under her struggling body.  “Come on in, then, _Fenrir_.”

Dolores had heard of the man named Fenrir Greyback.  He was a hulking beast of a man whose body always seemed to be somewhat caught between human and wolf.  There were rumors that he’d been born to his werewolf mother while she was fully transformed.  A proud supporter of werewolf’s rights, Greyback had also been rumored to knowingly infect others with his curse, though no one had properly been able to prove it.  Dolores thought back to earlier that evening.  Had it been a full moon?  As Fenrir came to stand next to her brother, his face inhumanly wolfish, Dolores realized with relief that the full moon had passed by a week ago.  Surely, then, Tirant was merely going to threaten or scare her with the possibility of a werewolf bite?  Dolores knew from her Defense class that werewolves could not infect people while in their human form, so at least there was that.

“S..so...you’ve...hu-humiliated m-me,” she ground out through gritted teeth. “G...good for you, you bastard.”

“Ah, but I’m not done yet,” Tirant said, pointing his wand at her again. “Now. Get on your knees and beg, and maybe I’ll let you go free.”

Dolores collapsed onto the floor as she was released from the Full Body Bind.  Rather than do as her brother had commanded, she immediately sprinted for the door.  She hated how awkward and ungainly her body was, especially without clothing, but she knew she had to escape-

“Fenrir.  Get her.”  There was a snapping sound and Dolores choked down a scream.  He was on her before she could grab the doorknob, pushing her to the ground. She tried to struggle, but he was immensely powerful.

His breath chuffed at her neck and she let out a tiny squeak when he licked her behind the ear.

“You’re _mine_ ,” he growled in her ear, and though Dolores hated her body for it, she could feel herself growing wet.

“N...noo…” she moaned as the fabric of his robes rubbed against her bare arse.  He fiddled with his robes for a moment and she could feel the heat of his cock pressing against her.

“Don’t worry, your brother says I’m not allowed to turn you,” Fenrir growled (for that seemed to be his default manner of speaking), “but this-” he rubbed his erection more forcefully against her backside “-is going to be inside of you until you’re good and knocked up with a litter of my pups.”

At this Dolores began to struggle again, but this only seemed to excite Fenrir more, and he began humping against her eagerly, the tip of his cock sliding down between the wet folds of her labia.

“I...I don’t want to be-AUGHHHHHHHH!” Dolores gasped as Fenrir finally struck home, plunging his cock past her hymen and filling her to the hilt.

“Too laaaate,” Fenrir said in a sing-song sort of growl.  His long nails dug into her hips as he began to move, humping away at her like an animal, which she supposed that he was to some extent.

He pumped back and forth inside of her mercilessly, and the stinging pain finally made way for a rising pleasure that Dolores hated herself for.  He howled when he came inside of her, and she could feel the heat of it fill her as she moaned with terror.

She knew the basics of what happened during sex.  Even a drop of semen could get her pregnant, and from the sensation inside of her she could tell that there was far more than a drop being pumped deep inside of her reluctant womb.

He slumped against her and she collapsed onto her belly, unable to move. Though it hadn’t made her climax, it had exhausted her will to fight.  Besides, her mind rationalized, there wasn’t a huge chance of pregnancy tonight. She’d only just had her period, after all.

“Think again, my dear sister,” Tirant’s voice said, as though reading her mind. “I’ve made sure to force feed you a conception potion as well.  Just trying to be thorough, after all.”

Dolores felt her heart sink as Fenrir pulled out of her and began to stroke himself until he was hard again.

“Ready for round two, bitchmother?” he growled.

Dolores simply whimpered as he slipped into her once more.

* * *

 

As the weekend progressed, Tirant took a slew of photos of the depraved couplings between Dolores and Fenrir, and only paused to shove potions down her throat at various intervals. Soon, Dolores’ childhood bedroom was filled with the stink of sex and semen, and she’d long since stopped trying to fight it.  Sometimes she slept as he pounded into her, and other times, she’d wake him up by rubbing his cock and kissing it until it wept pre-cum onto her lips.  She was lost to the all-encompassing need of the beast that had bred her, her mind fuzzy around the edges and unable to form coherent thoughts about anything beyond the wet sounds of copulation. 

As she straddled Fenrir and slipped his cock into her wet, cum-stained pussy, she smiled in a demented, broken way.

“I’m already pregnant, aren’t I?” she murmured, holding her distended belly as she slid up and down on his cock. “There’s no helping it...oooh, I can feel your cock pushing your cum deeper into my womb.”

“Oh, I like it when you talk dirty like that,” Fenrir replied, kissing her, “Your belly is gonna swell up so much. I hope you have an entire litter.”

He came not soon after, and Dolores shuddered as his ropey semen poured into her. “Oh-I’m-”

“Come for me, bitch,” Fenrir growled, biting at her neck gently.

She did, and she hated herself for it.

* * *

 

It took several months for her pregnancy to become obvious, but Tirant was a step ahead of her.  Every weekend there wasn’t a full moon, Fenrir was waiting for her in her bedroom, his cock glistening with pre-cum.  He fucked her with abandon in all manner of ways, and she moaned like a whore the whole time, her chest tight with a broken sort of exhilaration.  Her brain was filled with a lustful fog every time he mounted her, and she found herself wanting to please him. For even though he only wanted her for her body, it was the first time that anyone had wanted _her_.  Even though it had come of such violence and reluctance, there was something deeply arousing about being desired so forcefully, even if it was as a breedable fucktoy. 

“Spray your seed inside your pregnant bitchmother,” Dolores rasped as he slammed into her, his cock bottoming against her cervix.

“As you wish,” Fenrir growled back, emptying his balls into her with gusto.

* * *

 

Later, Tirant had led her downstairs, naked and covered in cum, her eyes rolling in her head as she smile, smile, _smiled_ and showed them her rounded belly, filled with pups.   

Why couldn’t they see how happy she was?

Dolore’s parents were horrified. They had to call off the entire planned wedding arrangements. Dolores found herself on the street, her belly swollen with at least three half-formed werewolf hybrid pups inside her, if the diagnosticians at St Mungo’s had anything to say about it.  Luckily, her job at the Ministry paid just enough to find a small flat, and due to her normally fat body, she was able to hide the pregnancy under her robes.  Her parents’ last kind gesture was not to reveal her shameful condition.

It was only near the end when she had to say that she was visiting family in order to hide the fact that she was close to going into labor.

Fenrir was there when she returned home, his face filled with desire.

“I could smell you around the block,” he purred, “You’re ready.”

He fucked her so hard that night that her water broke and she gave birth to three healthy werewolf pups soon after on the floor of her tiny flat. 

* * *

 

As she lay on her side with them nuzzling her breasts and trying to nurse, Dolores was filled with a mixture of horror and pride.  These monsters were the product of a monstrous union. Tirant, who’d arrived at some point and was let in by Fenrir, had snapped a bunch of photos and laughed at her before leaving.  Fenrir had eaten the afterbirth and licked up her blood.

“I’ll be back for the pups when their eyes open,” he snarled as he left.

Dolores nursed her monstrous babies for about a month, and, true to his word, Fenrir returned. By then, she’d bonded with them and cried terribly as he wrenched them from her arms.

“Don’t worry,” Fenrir said with a feral smile. “I’ll be back in a week to fuck some more into you. You’re not a half-bad breeder.”

Dolores could feel her chest fluttering with anticipation at his words.  Though she knew it was disgusting and horrible, she wanted him to fill her up with semen and fuck her pregnant over and over again.  She’d have litter after litter of his pups for his werewolf army, and he’d make her come so hard as he impregnated her that she would see stars in her eyes.

When he returned a week later, his cock was hard the moment he touched her.  Dolores was fascinated, lying naked on her back and spreading her legs for him like a bitch in heat. He sunk his teeth gently into her throat, not breaking the skin, but holding it in a display of dominance.

“I’ve been saving it up for your fertile week,” he confessed, as he released her throat.  He eased inside of her, the bulbous head of his cock making her shriek with pleasure as she pushed back against it.

“Oh, Fenrir! Breed me!” she demanded greedily, her froggy mouth stretched wide as she stuck her tongue out and panted like a dog.  Her eyes rolled back into her skull as he did as she’d asked.

Fenrir humped away and slid all the way to the hilt, making her scream with pleasure. “You sure you want me to put another litter inside of you?”

“Oh, yes, fuck me, breed me, come inside of me like the bitch I am!” she snorted almost like a pig as she let out the last word.

“Oh _yeah_ ,” he groaned, and she could feel his cock twitch inside of her as he grew close to the edge, “That’s the good stuff right there.  I’ll knock you up, bitchmother. I’ll do it right...NOW!”

With a sharp howl, he pumped her full of semen once more, then held his cock inside of her until he began to harden once more.

“P...please...let me catch my breath…” Dolores panted.

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not getting any sleep until you’re good and pregnant,” he said, sliding back and forth in her cum-drenched pussy while she hummed with exhaustion and delight.

* * *

 

After the Dark Lord fell, Fenrir disappeared in the chaotic aftermath, never to return to Dolores’ bed. By that point, she’d bred at least ten litters for him, and her deflated belly was shaped in a slight curve as though she were still in her first trimester.  All that month, she waited for him to turn up, to do as he’d done before, to breed her and make her forget the sad, tedious life she had outside of those moments where all that existed was her lust and his desire.

He never came back.

Half-crazed with lust, Dolores searched high and low for anywhere that Fenrir might be, keeping tabs on all the sightings of werewolves and werewolf attacks. Finally, she turned to the one person she swore she’d never turn to again.

Tirant.

He was living in northern France, with a young wife and daughter- the picture of a proper pure-blooded family. In a frenzied state, Dolores decided that she’d pay a surprise visit to her “dear” brother’s home and administer a little payback for the humiliation and pain she’d been put through.

  
And, if he were to let slip the location of her favorite werewolf, perhaps she’d even let him live.

When Dolores showed up unannounced at the house, she was surprised to find it empty and the windows boarded up.  A horrible crunching noise echoed from the back of the building and Dolores circled around back, her wand drawn.

The back wasn’t warded as heavily, and Dolores found herself staring in one of the grimy windows of what seemed to be a rather large kitchen.  When she saw the creature on all fours chewing on what appeared to be the putrefying remains of a hand, Dolores gasped.  His face was distorted by the change, but she would know her brother in any form.  He sniffed the air, his blood-red eyes fixing on her through the window.  He dropped the dessicated hand to the ground and lunged at the window, breaking the glass and cutting himself.  His claws clicked against the walls as he struggled to fit his body through the small hole.

Dolores shook her head and pulled something from her robes.  A pistol.

“And here I was, thinking that I wouldn’t have to use this until the end when you begged me to end it,” she said, a sickly sweet smile on her face as she cocked it with one finger.  “Who’s the half-breed now?”

She pulled the trigger, and the silver bullet shot through the air, making a clean hole in the middle of the werewolf’s forehead.

The creature sagged to the floor, dead.

Dolores would learn later that her brother had refused to pay Fenrir the money he’d promised him. Fenrir turned him and left alone in the house with his wife.  Their teenaged daughter had been taken to be added to his pack. Dolores felt her frantic need twist into bitterness and fury.

Three months later, she’d introduced a fine bit of anti-werewolf legislation. That night, she sat alone in her unwarded apartment, hoping he’d show up to punish her, turn her at last, but he never did.

“Filthy half-breeds,” Dolores would say every time she read of a werewolf being caught by aurors and put to death.

But she always scoured the photos for their faces, wondering if she might find familiar eyes staring back at her, and was always relieved when they didn’t.

After all, Dolores was also a hypocrite when it came to _her_ half-breeds.  

They were the _exception._


	2. The Faux Headmistress Has a Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comprehensive and detailed account of what really happened after Dolores Umbridge was carried off by the centaurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More unspeakable naughtiness (NOW WITH 500% MORE CENTAURS AND ELK-CENTAURS), and this time, there’s a whole lot of impregnation sex and birth and such. But then again, we all know why you’re here...ehehehe...

****“This is all that mudblood bitch’s fault! Take her instead!” Dolores screamed hysterically.

 

Regardless of how hard she kicked and flailed, the grip of the centaurs that held her suspended between them was like iron. She could smell an earthy, meaty scent, and her mind flashed with horror.

 

_No...no, they couldn’t…_

 

But Dolores had read about how half-breeds such as centaur were an all-male race.  They lived for hundreds of years, but were only able to breed by snatching females of other species and using them to...to...

 

“You must calm down, Headmistress,” a centaur with a dark goatee said gently. “You will cause harm to your body.”

 

“Let me go!” Dolores screamed back.

 

The centaur sighed deeply and did not respond to that.  Without another word, her captors carried her silently deeper into the forest.

 

Dolores was half-asleep when they finally came to a halt.  The rocking motion and sheer boredom that set in once Dolores realized they wouldn’t respond to her threats or let her go had been hard to stop herself from nodding off.

 

 _I’m just saving my energy, that’s all,_ she rationalized silently.  Her throat ached from screaming. Surely, she knew she wasn’t the most pleasant of people, but surely she did not deserve this indignity! Surely she was above being treated like an animal by these brutes!

 

“Headmistress, welcome.” These words were spoken by an oddly tall creature standing at the far end of the clearing.  Unlike the other centaur, his body was that of an elk, and large antlers splayed out from either side of his head.  Somehow, these massive protuberances did not seem to weigh him down in the least as he stepped daintily towards her.  Dolores felt her eyes roll with fear as she noticed the large, strangely-shaped stone slab fixed with iron manacles and a dark stain that seemed to cover part of it. “It is, however, unusual for you to bring her when she has not _formally_ succeeded Albus Dumbledore.”

 

“Surely you can hear it, Fabogan. The magic of the forest sings with confirmation.  It will work,” the centaur with the goatee who’d spoken to her before said, shuffling his hooves impatiently. “It has been far too long. Dumbledore promised-”

 

“He promised that he would ensure a female Headmistress would take up his mantle once his time was at an end,” Fabogan replied seriously, chuffing at the air. “This smells different, if only slightly.  What have you to say to that, Shenth?”

 

“We need new colts for Sagittarikos,” Shenth replied. “The herd has grown older these several hundred years, and there have only been male headmasters. An opportunity presented itself when she willingly entered our lands.  We are taking our tithe as the ancient magic decrees.”

 

Dolores began to struggle again at those words.  Normally, a tithe was a blood ritual, often favored by the fae to bring about acts of great magical significance.  Luckily, the fae had largely retreated from human lands in recent centuries, but Dolores knew better than to assume anything when it came to deadly beasts.  As for the centaur race, it was uncertain how they would set up their ritual. Dolores had never read much about their ways beyond the basic information listed in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. As she struggled against their rock-hard grip, she mentally cursed herself for not having introduced anti-centaur legislation yet.

 

“She does not appear to understand her role in this,” Fabogan said with a frown.  He stood close enough to touch her, now, but merely looked down at her with a quizzical look.  Dolores could feel her body’s senses heighten as adrenaline coursed through her body.

 

“Let go of me, you filthy half-breeds!” she shouted, spittle flying from her mouth as she channeled every bit of rage and terror into her words. “I’ll have the board of Governors put in an order to cull the lot of you!”

 

Fabogan stepped back, but it was clear that he was unimpressed with her display.  “Human Umbridge, you did swear the oath to take on the mantle of Headmistress, did you not?”

 

Dolores fumed for a moment but finally relented. “Of course I did! I signed everything and did all the spells in the proper manner!”

 

“Well, then, Human Umbridge, did you read the sub-paragraph pertaining to the Centaur Clause?”

 

Umbridge was reduced to spitting and sputtering for a moment. How _dare_ he? She was the Ministry’s Madam Undersecretary! Paperwork practically ran in her blood!  She had read that bloody massive manuscript! She _had_ . _Most_ of it.  The parts that she was interested in pertaining to her ability to control the school.  The other bits-

 

“Ready her for the ritual,” Shenth commanded, and the two centaurs holding her twisted her in their grip, moving swiftly enough to somehow remove Dolores’ robes and undergarments with minimal fuss.

 

After a few squeaked expletives, Dolores went silent at this treatment, but it was more out of utter shock than anything else.  She blushed scarlet at her nudity, her mind racing with possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last.

 

“I still do not fully approve, Shenth,” Fabogan said, his features growing somewhat cross.  Dolores finally realized just what was so unnerving about his eyes; he had no sclera, merely black pools that gazed at them like an alien beast.

 

“I don’t see you standing aside and forgoing your place at the head of ceremony, Master of the Forest,” Shenth scoffed.

 

Fabogan tossed his head from side to side at this, pawing at the ground in an agitated manner. “I honor the Old Ways. You would do well to do the same.”

 

Dolores didn’t realize she’d been caught up in their conversation, trying to understand the cryptic nature of their words until the centaurs holding her began to move.  She struggled as they brought her to the stone slab, and laid her out on the cold rock.  Her back prickled with gooseflesh and as soon as they loosened their hold on her, she tried to roll off of it, her mind set on escaping.  Even without clothing or her wand (she’d dropped it at some point when she’d panicked while being carried away), she had a sense of self-preservation.

 

Only she couldn’t move.

 

“There, you see?” Shenth pressed a square finger against Dolores’ belly button and she gasped at the sudden contact. “All is well. The markings are already starting to appear.”

 

Dolores was about to berate him for touching her, but she went silent when she noticed the strange, runic shapes that began to glow as they spiraled outward from her bellybutton. A strange, heady tingling sensation filled her and she moaned in confusion as she felt a sense of arousal overtake her. Her thighs relaxed, spreading wide, and her hand slid down the side of her slightly distended, lumpy belly to rub her fingers against the firm point of her clit. She moaned. It felt as though her body was moving of its own accord. Somewhere in her head, her rational mind was screaming about how humiliating this was, but it was truly no more humiliating than what Fenrir had done to her, and she grew wetter thinking of _that_. There were merely more people watching this time.  She was so distracted at this point that she did not notice the two centaur attaching her legs to the iron manacles until she felt the cold around her ankles and tried to pull her legs back together. Her attempt was met with a rattling, metallic resistance, and she blinked with confusion and fear as she finally came back to her senses.

 

“No!” she shouted, even as she felt her body prickling with the beginnings of desire.  It had been too long. “You can’t! This is rape! Let me go!”  

 

“You signed the documents. Your signature signaled your consent to our sacred ritual,” Shenth said with a dismissive huff. “The runic markings prove it.”

 

Fabogan made a shooing motion and Shenth stepped back. He placed his body between her and the other centaur and bent down slowly to look Dolores in the eyes. Even though his dark scleraless eyes were creepy, his expression was kind.  “The runic markings will ensure that you feel no pain, only pleasure in creating. You will also be returned unharmed after the span of one night, though this place and its earth magic allow time to pass differently than it does elsewhere.”

 

“That does _not_ make me feel any better!” Dolores replied crossly.  When Fabogan frowned, she tried her most saccharine voice and batted her eyelashes. “Please…please- just let me go, and-”

 

A loud blast from a hunting horn drowned out the rest of her words and the others turned their heads towards the sound, their ears prinked at attention.  

 

Dolores flinched as a thrumming jolt of energy pierced through her bellybutton. She only noticed belatedly that it was not just the magic of the runes, which now covered most of her torso and thighs and was spreading around the swell of her breasts, but the sound of many hooves beating the ground.

 

Slowly and gracefully, they stepped forward from the shadows, their front hooves touching the glowing outer circle of the sacred ring that surrounded the slab that Dolores lay upon.  As she looked up, she could see a full golden harvest moon hanging directly overhead the clearing, casting a friendly light upon the sacred place below it.

 

Dolores whipped her head back and forth, her eyes rolling like a frightened animal as she saw the eager expressions on all of the faces of the centaur that surrounded her.

 

Fabogan raised his hands and the mumbling roar of centaur voices ebbed away to silence.

 

“Dear cousins of the forest,” Fabogan said, pressing a fist to his chest and bowing his head slightly in respect, “it is my honor to welcome you to this sacred ritual that we centaur have observed for many hundreds of years.”  

 

“Our honor is yours, Master of the Forest,” the centaur herd replied in unison.

 

“As many of you know, we have not always been civilized in our procreative pursuits.  The Founders of Hogwarts offered us a noble manner with which to replenish our herd, one that is sealed by strong, ancient Earth magic and ensures enduring strength for our species.” Fabogan smiled at Dolores, who’d almost forgotten to struggle against her bonds, so taken was she by his rich, authoritative voice.  

 

It was the sort of voice that, on a human man, would have done funny things to her body, but then again, as she noticed with a bit of shock, this was already the case.  The runic markings were up to her shoulders, now, and she could feel them manifesting down her arms in bright jets of crackling power.  Oddly enough, as she felt her cheeks grow hot with the odd, ancient markings, she grew less afraid, and the terror began to subside in her chest.  She breathed more evenly, and, as she looked up at Fabogan, she noticed that he was in the process of removing the chains around her ankles.

 

“Our hearts are with yours, Master of the Forest,” the centaur herd chorused.

 

“The time for fear has ended, o chosen mother of the herd,” Fabogan said, extending his hand to her.

 

She took it, and he pulled her up to a sitting position with a gentlemanly bow.  Dolores did not move- she was so taken that she merely stared up at him in a docile manner, her hands on her lap as though she were sitting at her desk and not naked and covered with ancient magical marks on a ceremonial stone slab. Fabogan bent down to pick up a jar covered with ceremonial markings. He drew a long, horsehair paint brush from behind one ear, and dipped it in the jar.

 

“Lean back, mistress. You shall come to no harm,” he commanded gently, and she did as she was told, resting back on her hands so that he could see all of her naked body clearly.

 

He smiled and drew the brush across her areolas until they were dark with the reddish mixture, then drew a line down the middle of her belly and painted an oval on the lumpy pad of fat that resided directly over her womb.  She could feel her belly swoop with anticipation as he bent down and laid a kiss in the middle of it before continuing onward to paint markings on her thighs.  He had her turn to the side to mark her buttocks, and when he was done, he stood back and surveyed his work.

 

“Perfect. Simply perfect,” he said, his voice filled with awe.

 

Though Dolores knew that she was nowhere near perfect- her double chin and sadistic streak proved otherwise without a doubt- there was something about having heard those words uttered by someone who had no reason to lie to her that made something inside of her quiver with need.

 

“Never before have we been given such an ample feast,” he said, turning to the others. “With the blessing of the forest and the celestial body of Luna herself above, the Rutting shall henceforth commence!”

 

“Take her, Master, and fulfill the ancient pact!” the centaur herd shouted in unison, stomping their hooves until the clearing was filled with their cacophony.

 

Fabogan bent forward, his fingers cupping Dolores’ cheek. “Spread your legs for me, my sweetness,” he entreated, his voice deep and full of promises.

 

With a soft moan as his thumb pressed against her lips, she did as he’d asked.  There were foot holds for her to rest the soles of her feet on and she was momentarily surprised at the sensation of the half-elk man rising over her, settling his hooves on footholds that were placed on either side of her on the slab, only lower down than the flat expanse where she lay so that his body would be able to fit properly for the purposes of the ritual without crushing her to death.

 

Dolores knew what rutting meant, but she was still surprised when she felt the firm pressure of Fabogan’s cock against her outer labia.  It was hot and bulbous; the tip far larger than anything she’d ever taken before.

 

“You’ll break me!” she gasped, but she was already unconsciously rubbing herself against it and she appreciated the soft gasp he made at her movements.

 

“Do not fear,” he said, tenderly kissing her forehead. Then, he sought her lips and kissed her deeply, drawing a broken, animalistic moan from deep within her.

 

She screamed at first when he pressed into her folds, but it wasn’t from pain.  Her wetness and anticipation had taken care of that.  The magic, too, was likely a factor, but all conscious thought was ripped from her mind as he began to move deeper and deeper inside of her.  She could feel his heat and the sheer unprecedented size of him filling her, though her lumpy, fat belly didn’t show any visible distension. Belatedly, she realized that she was a bit disappointed about that- there was something about feeling an unusually large cock inside of her that made her want to see it from the outside of her as well.  Still, as he moved above her, she lost herself to the pleasure of it. He had been right in telling her that there would be no pain, but the pleasure-oh, he hadn’t mentioned how _good_ it would feel.

 

She found herself on the edge of climax very quickly, especially when she realized what they meant to do to her.

 

“Ah--ahhhh...Y...you’re g...gonna knock me up,” she moaned sharply, as he bottomed out inside of her, his arms gripping her shoulders as his body jerked with pleasure and purpose.

 

He nodded; a twitchy motion that hit pleasurable places deep inside of her.

 

“Does it please you that tonight you shall give birth to my child this night?” Fabogan gasped, obviously losing control of himself.

 

“Ahhhh, there’s going to be..aaaah!...a half-breed baby deep...ooooh!...deep...inside of my womb…” Dolores shrieked as her orgasm hit her and she squeezed tightly around Fabogan’s cock.

 

With an inhuman trumpeting sound of pleasure, Fabogan sped up, his cock spasming deep inside of her, shooting wave after wave of his semen deep inside of her. Dolores watched with sated, pleasure-filled eyes as her belly distended noticeably as he finished filling her with his load.  His arms were taut with exertion and he grunted as a final few jets of semen filled his broodmare.

 

He pulled out of her gently and withdrew from his position above her, then placed a gentle hand on her abdomen.  Dolores could feel a hot spark deep inside of her womb, and she knew that the ancient magic of the ritual had fulfilled its purpose- one of the tiny sperm in the ocean of semen that he’d just ejaculated inside of her had hit its mark.

 

“I...think it took,” she said, placing her hand over his.

 

He looked at her and smiled- his joy was palpable.  He bent down and kissed over the lines of paint on her thighs and then began to lick her core, lapping at her gently until she could barely take it any longer. As he brought her to climax after climax, letting her rest for short intervals, she could notice her body changing- she’d already experienced the breeding cycle of werewolves, but they were very similar to humans in most respects.  This, however, was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.  As she looked down at her body, she could feel it expanding more quickly than was natural.  Her belly began to swell within minutes.  She watched, transfixed, until she could no longer see Fabogan and his talented fingers and mouth working at the apex of her thighs with the singular purpose of giving her pleasure.  Her breasts, too, grew larger and fuller with milk, and as she grew more and more pregnant, she could feel the gentle wetness of her milk ducts letting down whenever she orgasmed.  Soon, her belly was almost cartoonishly large, and she could feel the baby moving energetically around inside of her. Though this baby was larger than any of her previous pups, she did have to be thankful that there was only one inside of her.  Still, she’d never given birth to anything this size before…

 

“Let it happen, Dolores,” Fabogan was saying, his voice gentle and soothing, and Dolores let herself cry out as he brought her to orgasm yet again.

 

She took a deep breath as she came down from her orgasm just in time to see him rise over her again.

 

“You’re ready,” he said, helping to turn her around onto her hands and knees. This would otherwise have been impossible, but the dip in the slab was at just the right angle for her massive belly to hang underneath her while she was on her hands and knees, presenting herself to him like a bitch in heat.

 

With a grunt of pleasure, he slid easily inside of her, and Dolores knew what he meant to do. Fenrir had done the same- there was something about semen that could bring on labor- Umbridge had read about it in the pregnancy book she’d purchased by owl her first time. Unlike before, though, it was obvious by his quick, firm pace, that he was fucking her mainly for his own pleasure. Still, she couldn’t fault him for that. He’d spent the past hour pleasuring her in all manner of ways.  His large, rough hands wrapped around the front of her and grasped her breasts as he let out a broken moan and came hard and fast inside of her.  She cried out as well- not in orgasm, but simply at the pleasure of the wet, hot pressure against her cervix.

 

She went into labor only a few minutes afterwards.

 

It was quick and relatively painless- Dolores thanked the runic magic for that.  She was utterly unprepared for the size of the baby; his perfect elk body with an upper human torso of what looked like a two-year-old child.  Still, he suckled happily at her breasts, his wide eyes devoid of sclera, just like his father.

 

Once he was finished, he nuzzled her cheek with a happy bleating sound, stood on wobbly legs and came to stand beside his father.

 

Dolores felt a pulse in her belly and her body seemed to shrink in upon itself until she was the same size she had been before.

 

“You have my eternal thanks for the son you have blessed me with,” Fabogan said, taking her hand in his and kissing it.  “I shall raise him in the Old Ways and bring honor to our union.”

 

Dolores did not know what to say to this- she only held out her hands to her son and he came to her immediately.

 

“Be good,” she said, kissing her son on the forehead. It was then that she realized that she could no more cull the centaur herd than she could kill her own werewolf pups.  And, as Fabogan stepped back into the darkness of the forest with his son at his side, Dolores’ eyes focused on the long line of male centaurs, their cocks hard and glistening with pre-cum and their faces tinged with the lust of knowing that their rutting time would come soon.

All told, Dolores was fairly certain that she’d given birth to over fifty centaur colts that night.  There were a few pregnancies that bore twins, and those had left her exhausted, even as the next stallion mounted her with the intent to breed her.  She lost count of how many times she had been brought to a screaming orgasm; her throat was ragged and she could barely speak above a whisper.

 

By the time her runic markings began to fade and the full moon above them began to dip out of sight, her body was covered with sweat and slick with various bodily fluids.  As her body deflated for the final time, she was struck by how much she enjoyed the lumpy protuberance of her belly- it was a reminder of what had grown in her womb- what she was capable of making.  Even though she was ugly and most certainly unlovable in many ways, her body was good at making babies, and she felt no small measure of pride at the thought of the number she’d managed in one night.

 

Still, as the magic waned, she could feel the soreness inside of her, and the thought of seeing a rigid cock intent on impregnating her made her shudder. Luckily, the herd, like Dolores, was utterly spent.

 

Only half-conscious, she felt herself being lifted by strong arms and brought to a warm pool of water that was scented with rosemary and lilac.  They bathed her gently, and she gave them no resistance- it felt heavenly to be washed by such gentle hands.  How she’d ever seen the centaur as brutes was now something she found laughable. They were strong, certainly, and dangerous if provoked, but their heads were full of peace and tradition, not unlike the average witch or wizard. She floated in the water, allowing them to pull her from it, then they dried her off with soft, silken linens, and re-dressed her in her robes, which were somehow clean and pressed as though they’d been newly made.  Her wand was in her sleeve pocket, just as it usually was.  With that, she was carried gently to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, kissed gently on the forehead, and left standing with a strange, stricken look on her face.  There were lights and familiar voices in the distance, but when she tried to take a step towards the castle, she stumbled and fell to one knee.  It wasn’t long after that Filch and Mrs. Norris found her, quivering, on the grass, her legs far too shaky for her to walk.

 

Dolores would never tell anyone the truth of what happened to her out in the forest, but she did feel an acute sense of sadness when Dumbledore was reinstated as Headmaster of Hogwarts. She also found herself making excuses to go with Ministry officials in the Magical Creatures division on their various yearly expeditions to accurately gauge populations of magical beasts in the Forbidden Forest, if only in the hopes of catching a glimpse of one of her hooved sons or their fathers.

 

In the end, she never did end up finishing that anti-centaur legislation.  After all, some things were best left off the books.

**Author's Note:**

> Post Story Note: I’m kinda entertaining the thought of a “Dolores has a bad day” series in which terrible sexy things happen to our least favorite pink toad.  Let me know what you think in the comments!


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